


Not a Son of Adam

by nasimwrites



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Book: The Silver Chair, Gen, Post-Thor (2011)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 07:07:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16300388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nasimwrites/pseuds/nasimwrites
Summary: “A god? I think not,” said the old Dwarf, turning to look at Caspian the Tenth with heavy meaning in his eyes. “A witch, rather.”A lost Prince goes on a mission to find a lost Prince, and maybe finds himself in the process.





	Not a Son of Adam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spellboundreader316](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellboundreader316/gifts).



Loki wasn’t entirely sure, later, what exactly he had expected when he let go of Thor at the edge of Bifrost Bridge. Instant death, somehow? For a person who prided himself on his logic, the expectation that letting go would somehow transport him to a quiet death was frankly overemotional... and that was the first thing Loki thought when he crashed through a patch of trees and found himself half-buried in soil with thorns digging painfully through his clothes.

Well, that, and _ouch_.

His head was buzzing from the collision, but more piercing than any pain was the one deep in his chest, which did not have anything to do with the fall, and more with his father’s expression when—

“ _I’d_ say it’s a Human, ‘cept it doesn’t have legs.”

The shock of hearing a voice so close at hand was almost greater than the information that he was no longer in possession of his legs. Except—he looked down—his legs were, in fact, there.

“Oh, sorry. They’re just a bit buried, there. All limbs present!”

The voice was coming from behind him, and it belonged to an oversized, lanky rabbit, whose ears were lopsided with confusion. It seemed to be directing its remarks to a large tree some feet away, and to its credit, it hardly flinched when Loki gathered his strength and pulled himself up into a sitting position.

“Where am I?”

“You’re in Narnia, friend!” said the Rabbit, nose twitching. “And we’re all wondering—are you a Son of Adam?”

 _A son of Odin_ , his traitorous mind corrected them, but Loki said nothing. The creature did not seem threatening, exactly, but it was much larger than any rabbit Loki had ever seen, and perhaps he ought to tread carefully.

“Tell him the King’s soldiers are coming!” called a voice from behind the tree. Loki caught a glimpse of horns, but not much else.

The Rabbit shrugged, as if to say, “you heard him.” A before Loki could say much more, there was a sound of thundering hooves and a group of riders came into view—but they weren’t riders: they were Centaurs.

Loki had heard of many strange places in his life, but he had never heard of a planet like this one.

***

_“I could have done it, Father! I could have done it! For you! For all of us!”_

_“No, Loki.”_

***

As it turned out, the planet was named _Narnia_ , although the talkative Rabbit that the centaurs carried along with them as a witness insisted he’d never heard of such a thing as a planet you could live on, and was Loki from Calormene, maybe?

A centaur gingerly handled Loki’s helm, which had apparently been retrieved by woodland creatures after Loki’s fall, and no one told Loki anything, but their arrival at a large palace immediately made things clear.

After being propped up ungracefully on the back of a horse with his wrists tied together, Loki was glad to be on his feet. He was less impressed, however, to find himself at the foot of a dais, upon which was a throne, upon which sat a King.

This King was an old man with white hair a white beard, dressed in dark colors despite the richness of his clothing. And though he seemed frail, and coughed into a silk handkerchief from time to time, his gaze was steady. He hardly seemed to blink when he looked down at Loki, as if he were looking for something _in_ him.

“You stand before Caspian the Tenth, King of Narnia, Lord of Cair Paravel and Emperor Lone Islands!” said a Dwarf, who was seated upon a low wooden chair near the throne—clearly some manner of councilor. Around them, just below the dais, stood a variety of creatures: an Owl, two Centaurs, three tree-like women, along with others Loki could not name. “Who are you, and where have you come from?”

“I do not answer to Kings,” Loki replied, tasting something sour in his mouth. The last thing he wished wanted to see was a King, and King Caspian the Tenth reminded him sickeningly of King Odin, with that piercing gaze, white beard and undeserved gravitas.

“You were found on Narnian soil, dressed in what seems to be battle gear,” said the King, ignoring his insolence, although those around him had stiffened with anger. “You do not paint a picture of good intentions. Have you come from the South?” His eyes narrowed. “Or from the North?”

Loki laughed, although he did not feel particularly amused. “I have come much farther than that, King. Farther than you could possibly imagine in this lesser planet.”

The Narnians around him looked at each other in bewilderment, not seeing the sense in what he was saying. But the King leaned forward in his throne, a frown of intense focus on his face, as if he had suddenly found a clue of what he had been looking for in Loki this whole time.

“ _Planet_? I have known some who spoke thus, but they have not been seen in more than fifty years. _Spare-Oom_ was the name of their home. And you, too, have the look of an outsider.”

The Owl suddenly sprung up from the perch where it had been dozing, wings flapping. “A Son of Adam, Sire, who knew? Perhaps sent by the Lion, too! Aslan sent us Sons of Adam whenever Narnia was in need, and now—just as you are on the brink of giving up…!”

“Calm yourself, Glimfeather,” said Caspian, his expression contorting, as one trying to hold back evil thoughts. “Perhaps if he were sent by Aslan, I might consider it. But even if he is Human, what good might he do? Others have tried. I will not send another to his death.”

“Then release me from these ropes,” Loki said through gritted teeth. “For I did not ask to become your servant, or to be involved in your affairs. And if you knew who stood before you—”

But the Owl’s hope would not be quelled. “But _are_ you a Son of Adam? Are you? Who sent you?”

Loki was growing more and more annoyed. His wrists might be tied, but his power was still with him. Drawing on it, he focused his mind, and raising his tied hands, made the Rabbit rise from the ground, the Dwarf’s hat float into the air, and the King’s crown rise a few inches from his head.

“I am no Son of Adam,” he announced in a ringing voice. “I am Loki of Asgard: a god of mighty power!”

A son of Odin no longer, but that was for him to know and grapple with.

However, the statement elicited mixed reactions throughout the room. While some went slack-jawed with awe, others recoiled—and as soon as the Rabbit returned to the ground, the hat sat firmly on the Dwarf’s head and the King was again crowned, Loki got the distinct impression that he had somehow made things more confusing for himself.

(The Rabbit’s first reaction, though, was to hop in a small circle exclaiming “I _flew!_ ” until others hushed him.)

“A god? I think not,” said the old Dwarf, turning to look at Caspian the Tenth with heavy meaning in his eyes. “A _witch_ , rather.”

The King nodded slowly, his eyes skimming Loki’s green cape, and the green accents on his tunic. “A witch,” he agreed, and his gaze was dark.

***

“How do you know he is not the one behind that very same witchcraft? If not the serpent himself, then an ally?”

“He is not of this place. Why should he come here, if he belongs to that evil? For a decade the serpent has acted with trickery and seduction—I do not think they are one and the same.”

“But a witch is a witch. And witches can’t be trusted; that much we learned from the White Witch’s reign. If we are to have two in Narnia, something ought to be done.”

“And he is a male! Have you ever heard of a witch who was male?”

“Maybe he’s a southern witch. I daresay those are better.”

“He doesn’t look like he’s from the South.”

“What do witches even look like, anyway?”

“Enough, friends. We speculate. But Glimfeather is right. That he should appear, just on the eve of my ship being finished… I have not gotten a clearer sign since the days I spent at the end of the world. Perhaps I am not meant to give up. Not yet.”

***

As hollow as Loki had felt in the hours after the explosive showdown with Thor on the Bridge, and as detached as he had felt from the entire situation with the Rabbits and the Centaurs and whatever this King was doing, he felt a small stirring of interest in what was left of his logical mind when the story of the King’s son was told.

It was the Dwarf who told it, for the King’s face twisted into an agonized grimace and he seemed to retreat deep into himself.

Caspian the Tenth had once had a son named Rilian, whose mother had been killed by a mysterious serpent in the forest. Or perhaps it had been a woman—no one was sure. Because a short time after, the Prince had been lured by a mysterious woman from the very same place… and had not been seen since.

“More than thirty good champions have tried to find him, but disappeared without a trace,” the Dwarf said. “After the last, the King said he would not have any more lost.”

“Has no one thought that perhaps the Prince is dead, then?” Loki said, crossing his arms and looking the King in the eyes.

But the King did not seem angry at his question. Instead, he shook his head and closed his eyes, as if he could barely contain his pain. “I almost wish it were so,” he said. “For then I could resign myself to the loss. But Rilian is alive—I feel it in my heart, and the disappearance of his champions only confirms it. The thought that he might be imprisoned somewhere, thinking we have abandoned him… that is more painful even than news of his death might have been.”

The Owl ruffled his feathers. “Humans and Centaurs and Talking Beasts have heard this tale, like you, and tried to save the Prince too. Whatever power keeps him away is too powerful. But a witch… a witch might be something new.”

And so, Loki understood what was being asked of him. Far from the sorts of tasks he was given in Asgard—most turned to Thor when it came to reversing evil fates—this one was undoubtedly grand, perhaps even heroic… and one where his magic would come in handy.

Part of him was ready to rebel against all this nonsense, escape, and once in a quiet place with no irritating creatures, gather his strengths to discover how he might go to another, more comfortable planet. But… this palace seemed perfectly comfortable, rather reminiscent of Asgard, in fact. And as much as Loki disliked the King, it was clear that Caspian the Tenth would be leaving soon, one way or another. With all chance of a future in Asgard gone, Narnia might do nicely. And it seemed that it had already been ruled by a witch before.

He didn’t really have to fight anyone at all. With some knowledge gained, and a suitable image of what Prince Rilian looked like, he could conjure up a decent enough illusion to become a long-lost prince and heir to the throne. There was no better mission for an expert at illusion with experience living as a prince.

The energies he had focused so rigorously on Thor and Jotunheim were not gone. And as they awoke beneath the weight of rage and pain caused by Odin, they were ready to be redirected to a more… _fruitful_ cause.

Stepping forward, he walked to the King. “What is the reward?”

Caspian the Tenth stared at him for a second, then spoke with a shaking voice. “All the gold you may dream of, and the respect and gratitude of all the Narnian people, forever.”

That sounded suitable. "I’ll expect you to deliver when I return.”

“ _If_ you return,” said the King, and he sighed and looked away. He looked suddenly utterly weakened, and waved for the old Dwarf, a cough starting to shake his body. The Dwarf hobbled over to him, waving Loki and the others away.

But Loki understood. The King did not believe that he would succeed.

The similarities with Odin were endless.

***

“He’ll need a guide, you know. If he’s telling the truth, and isn’t from here, it’s no easy trek through the Marshes and further North.”

“I have just the one, I do!”

“An Owl’s no use, Glimfeather; you’d be asleep right now if it weren’t for all the excitement. And anyway, no Talking Beast would dare travel with a Witch.”

“None of the Dwarfs, either, I assure you.”

“No, I have just the one: Puddleglum, the Marsh-Wiggle.”

***

The Northern Marshes were an unsightly place, but being there was certainly much more comfortable than _getting_ there, so Loki had the advantage of at least feeling pleased to be on solid ground and away from the Narnians when he met one of the strangest creatures he had ever seen: a Marsh-Wiggle.

Puddleglum was tall, with skin that looked like swamp-green mud, webbed feet and hands, and a look of permanent disappointment. Loki was already prepared to hold his breath around the thing the second it appeared.

It did not seem to care, though. “Good afternoon. Although I won’t expect it to last much longer; the sky’s already turning grey, and a shower’s been due for weeks, so I suppose we ought to be prepared to swim our way out.” It looked up, wide-brimmed hat tilting. “Puddleglum’s my name, although I don’t expect you’ll remember it.”

“I am Loki, of Asgard,” Loki said, warily. The Marsh-Wiggle seemed more of a pessimistic fisherman than a warrior, which was not at all what he had hoped for. “I expect _you_ to remember it.”

Puddleglum sighed. “Surely lack of sleep, scarce food and bad travelling conditions will wear down our brains until memory fades completely. It can’t be helped.”

“You seem like a charming travelling companion,” Loki said dryly.

Undeterred, the Marsh-Wiggle turned away slightly to continue what it had been doing—packing, Loki realized. There was a small pile of rolled-up blankets, water skins, and unidentifiable parcels. “Put no weight on it. Folks say a lot of things at the start of an adventure, then start to quarrel terribly as the days wear on. I daresay your opinion will change drastically, but we’ll make the best of it.”

Loki did not appreciate the sarcasm. Neither, he realized as he looked around them, did he appreciate the lack of horses.

As if he could read Loki’s thoughts, Puddleglum shook his head, handing him half of the belongings—which Loki belatedly realized had been packed for _him_. “There’s no use in having horses in the marsh, you know,” he said. “They’d only slow us down. And then we’ll be crossing the Shribble, and climbing cliffs… it’ll be a wonder if we make it ourselves, so there’s no use in bringing along more lives to care for.”

It was what it was, Loki thought, resigning himself to what was bound to be a very muddy and dull journey, with a very unsightly companion and a drab pack on his back. Who would ever imagine Odin’s son, the god of mischief, ankle-deep in mud with a Marsh-Wiggle, on a mission to save an obscure kingdom’s prince?

But to secure power, one must be willing to do what it takes. And the bumbling fools at Asgard had been saying for years that Thor was magnificent covered in mud and armed with a sword, while Loki was a lesser Prince for favoring spells and intelligence over the muck.

Well, here he was, doing both. And while he was only equipped with a dagger, not a sword, like the Marsh-Wiggle had—although Loki did not know where he had gotten it from—the combination of his wits and magic should be more than enough.

It had always been, no matter what Odin thought of him.

“Well,” he said stiffly. “Let’s get on with it, then.”

***

At first, Loki was relieved that the Marsh-Wiggle was not the talkative sort that might pester him with a million questions, as he had feared. That is, until he realized that _he_ did have questions, and Puddleglum’s quietness had put him in the position of the asker: the _tourist._ It was not a position he enjoyed being in.

But speaking was the only way to gather information, and so, talk he must.

“Where did the others start their search?”

Puddleglum did not seem surprised to hear him speak after so much silence.“By the fountain where the Queen was killed,” he said, continuing his walk through the Marshes. “But who knows where they ended up from there. Most have guessed it’s North, seeing as most of them came up this way and crossed yonder… but whatever they met afterwards made it so that they can’t come back. I expect we’ll see what it is for ourselves, soon enough.”

“I don't believe the King will care either way,” Loki spat, gingerly stepping away from one of the larger mud puddles only to step into what must have been one of the deepest. “He seems keen on sending others to die in his stead.”

He half expected this to elicit a heated response in his travel companion, but Puddleglum said nothing for a little while, and when he spoke it was still in a dull, gloomy voice.

“Right, right… I doubt the King would notice, when so many better people have tried. You and I are hardly a force to be reckoned with, witch or not—”

“I’m not a witch.”

“Well, see! Even worse. Not even a witch. And me, well, this sword is about all that’s sharp about me. A pretty pair we are.”

Loki let out a growl. “I’m not a witch, but that does not make me incompetent, Marsh-Wiggle. My powers are beyond what you could possibly understand. You, _or_ your King.”

Yet unmoved, Puddleglum nodded sagely. “I’m sure there’ll be a chance for you to reveal ‘em all, the farther we go. But I’m sure the King knew something, or he wouldn’t’ve sent you. He’d outlawed searching for the Prince for the past few years, you know.”

“I could not care less about what your King thinks,” Loki snapped, and Odin’s gaze, piercing over the edge of Bifrost Bridge, flashed through his mind. “I despise their pride and their machinations. Any respect I once had for the throne is now gone, replaced only with the hunger of retribution.”

“Quite sensible,” Puddleglum remarked. “I suppose your father was a King, too. That’s a special sort of bitterness; can’t match _that._ At least we’re not likely to meet any Kings on this road… it’s all mud and lowly enemies from now on, so that’s a comfort, if it's not also the death of us.”

***

Crossing the river Shribble was perhaps even more humiliating than being carried by centaurs to Cair Paravel. At least this time, his only audience was Puddleglum, who was mystifyingly immune to what was probably a comedic sight, as Loki slipped and splashed along the shoals and stepping stones, the sound of the rushing river only barely muffling his groans every time water made it through his boots and leggings.

When they reached the northern bank, they were already wet nearly to the knees. Fifty yards ahead, Ettinsmoor rose steeply. Loki immediately made his way towards the shallow gorge westwards, but Puddleglum shook his head mournfully. “We’ll do better walking straight,” he said. “The giants mostly live along that side… although I shouldn’t wonder if we still find some on this one.”

“I don’t like giants,” Loki said under his breath. Funny that in this world, it still made no difference that he was a giant himself.

“Neither do I, particularly,” said Puddleglum, looking down at the rocky ground as he climbed the steep hill. “No more than other folk, I don’t think, at any rate. To each his own. I’d rather climb these cliffs without being worried about being stepped on.”

Loki hated that even now, muddy and soaked through in the planet of Narnia, as far as Asgard as one could possibly go, his chest still ached with the injury his family had wrought him. He longed, suddenly, for his mother—she would have understood, perhaps even commended him on the cleverness of his plan. Not like Thor and Odin, whose misguided idea of honor would lead Asgard to disaster… and their family to ruin.

They had always thought he was a villain. Loki saw it now: no matter how strong the disguise that kept him from turning blue like the fiends of Jotunheim, he had never looked Asgardian to his father. Odin has always expected him to turn murderous; had never bothered to waste love on the asset he had gained through the war.

Well, if that was what they had expected, that that was what he would become. It was simpler to be like this, anyway—to be a villain rather than a hero, a witch rather than a champion. A conqueror rather than a savior.

***

“Is it not possible that the King’s champions were merely killed by the Giants?”

“I don’t want to make assumptions, if you get my meaning, but it’s not strange for a Giant to forget himself. These are times of peace, but we’re the intruders here, crossing the border. There are plenty of ways to die in Ettinsmoor, but I’d bet the Giants are the likeliest.”

“I’ve fought worse Giants than these before. But if your people are so quickly outsmarted by these witless lumps, it’s no wonder your Prince was never found.”

“We aren’t the brightest, that we aren’t.”

Below them, the moor dipped and suddenly fell into irregular rocks, eventually rising to razor-sharp mountains. Far beneath, a roaring river shook the earth with its sound. And the only way across was a massive bridge.

One could say it was meant for giants.

***

It was near the end of the bridge that they saw the first sign of something unusual—for Loki did not count the previous wall of Giants that they had seen as unusual, given that they were, apparently, in Giants’ country. No, what was unusual was the sight of a woman dressed in a flowing white dress, trotting daintily towards the barren landscape ahead on a white horse.

“My Lady,” Loki called out instinctively. At his side, the Marsh-Wiggle’s steps slowed.

He half expected the woman to ignore them, so immersed she seemed in her own business, but instead she turned immediately, and with a wide smile rode back towards them.

“Good afternoon, trravelers!” she exclaimed in a peculiar accent, all elegant gaiety. “What an interesting pair you make! Where are you headed?”

Her eyes raked over Loki’s green-and-black, and Puddleglum’s… well, _Puddleglum-ness_.

“I suppose you might say we are explorers, my Lady,” Loki replied hastily. Who knew what pessimism Puddleglum might unleash on the woman? “But what brings one such as you to these parts, and unaccompanied nonetheless? It cannot be safe to cross this wasteland on your own.”

She laughed again, but this time the steely sound of it shone through just enough for Loki to hear it, and he knew that his suspicions were not unfounded. “Why, you are so very kind—but fear not, I am by no means at risk in these parts. The people adore me, and I them. It is _you_ who seem to be a stranger… few explorers tread here. Where have you come from? The Eastern Coast? Narnia?”

And the last word was said with innocent curiosity, but there was a gleam in her eye that Loki knew—manipulation, and one with motivations far deeper than that of an ordinary woman... if there was such a thing around here.

Loki allowed himself a laugh. “Neither,” he said, for it was true. “But the best places to explore are those seldom treaded.”

The Lady’s laugh was louder than his, as if asserting itself. “Of course, that is indisputable! Well, even travelers grow weary after much toil, and I do not think your journey was without its obstacles. If you desire rest and comfort for a short time, why not stop at Harfang? It is only a little way up this road; a burgh and castle where dwell the gentlest giants in the world. And if you tell them the Lady of the Green Kirtle has sent you for the Queen’s Feast, then I can assure you that tonight you will sleep on the softest beds, eat the most delicious meals and be soothed by the warmest baths.” She smiled widely. “And I am sure that through those wise peoples you will gain valuable knowledge of this land.”

“It sounds delightful,” Loki replied smoothly. “Perhaps we shall.”

Her beautiful smile widened. “How very wonderful! Well, I must continue, now—but I confess, the sight of such handsome travelers has greatly improved my day. May you enjoy the comforts of Harfang!”

She rode away, the pure white of her dress in unearthly contrast to the jagged, cruel-looking rock that seemed to jut out of the ground everywhere.

Puddleglum made a clicking noise with his tongue. “Well, that’s a sweetly-voiced deception, and no mistake.”

***

“We aren’t going to the Giants’ city, are we? Because that sounded much too good to be true. And I’m not one for warm baths, anyway.”

“Nevermind the baths—she is clearly more than meets the eye. If we climb this cliff here quickly enough, we might see where she goes.”

“If neither of us breaks our neck, that is. If Harfang is so comfortable, why does she not go there herself?”

“I don’t trust Giants anymore than I trust Kings, and a Giant Queen doubly less. Can you see her from there?”

“I see her. She’s going down into the steepest trench—how in Aslan’s name has she got that horse down there with her? Well, she’s in, now. And it doesn’t take a wise Wiggle to see that something’s afoot.”

“What do your witches look like, Puddleglum?”

“I wouldn’t know. We haven’t had one in thousands of years, thank the Lion. But they say the White Witch was cold like winter, and that she fooled folks at first—until it was too late, and they were turned into stone.”

“I imagine she was beautiful.”

“I’d say that’s more likely than not. Are we going in after her, then?”

“Loath as I am to say it, I don’t think there is a wiser way to proceed than walking straight into the hornet’s nest.”

***

A hornet’s nest, indeed. And like hornets, the Earthmen surrounded them, and they descended. _Many come down, and few return to the sunlit lands._

The gnomes were ugly and misshapen, and they marched Loki and Puddleglum as if they were prisoners down into their strange underworld. Puddleglum remained quiet the entire time since they were captured, and through their journey over the quiet underground waters, although Loki was not sure if it was out of fear or just silent observation. It was always hard to tell with the Marsh-Wiggle.

But although being taken prisoner-like down a series of caves deeper and deeper underground, following the strangest-looking henchmen Loki had ever seen—and that was saying something—was an odd experience, Loki’s wits were still sharp, and the moment they arrived at the strange, sunless city, he knew exactly what he was seeing.

This land was not a town belonging to some underground society: it was a war camp, hastily built and weighed down by the yoke of oppression. Loki had seen it many times before, in other planets with other peoples. The look in the eyes of the Earthmen was easy to place, even in the encroaching shadows.

This was a place of power—and that power did not belong to the Earthmen.

“I’d bet a pretty penny that that’s a Witch’s house,” Puddleglum said in a low voice, nodding towards what appeared to be a castle. “Which settles the question of who the woman in white was.” He placed a webbed hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Careful,” Loki said, glancing around them, although the Earthmen took no notice. “We are surrounded by an army. This place reeks of war.”

“They hardly seem the worst danger of the lot, though,” the Marsh-Wiggle said dryly. “Seeing as they’ve escorted us here. I’d say there’s much worse coming.”

“They are fools. I will be their reckoning.” Loki looked around at the quiet masses working about the shadowy coasts, the crowds hurrying to and fro as if bound by some unknown mission. “They have shown me to their castle and provided me an army—and perhaps even the treasure that would earn me Caspian’s reward. They have made it much too easy.”

“I thought you said you didn’t care for Kings,” Puddleglum pointed out. “And if by treasure you mean the Prince, I doubt a Human could survive down here long, what with the darkness and air and these pitiful chaps.”

“This underground kingdom is the treasure, and one that would allow me to find retribution.” If not from Odin, then from Caspian.

It would be so easy to take over these pathetic peoples, harness the Witch’s army, and use them to conquer Narnia—as no doubt she meant to do, given the evidence. They were all fools, and for once, circumstances seemed to be on Loki’s side.

But Puddleglum, still plodding on through the strange, quiet city, did not react as if he understood what Loki meant. Instead, he went off on a strange tangent.

“There’s a story in the Marshes of a Wiggle who had rotten luck with eels one year after years of abundance, and got it into his head that his neighbors thought he was no use as a Wiggle. It bothered him so much so that he swore off fishing eels and tried to catch fish instead. All the way up to the Shribble, he went, fishing like mad. 'I'll show 'em', he thought. There was little fish, and the taste was terrible, but it was still better than the eels, he said to himself—then he figured, there was no use staying on the marsh when he had no use for eels, so he moved off and built a wigwam in a dryer spot, and the Shribble’s so fast and shallow that he never swam or even stuck his feet in, until his hands and feet changed and didn’t look like a Wiggle’s at all, just dried right up. And then when he came back, no one thought he was a Marsh-Wiggle at all, he’d changed so much, and when he told them how successful his life was up North no one cared much because they didn’t know him, and so it was hardly a revenge at all. And he went right back to fishing eels, and soon after one of his neighbors told him about another Wiggle who’d been as best an eel-catcher as one could be with the dratted weather—and turns out, that Wiggle was him, and the whole journey had been pointless.”

“That story made no sense,” Loki told him. But the further they walked, the more the words bothered him, despite their long-winded nonsense.

The Earthmen stopped at the entrance to the castle, where they were met by other gnome-sentries. Many sink down to the Underworld," they said.

"And few return to the sunlit lands. The Queen's grace will come to deal with the top dwellers soon, but in they should be left in the prison until she is ready."

Loki sighed. “Waiting be damned,” he interrupted, and with a snap of his fingers was rid of them.

***

The interior of the castle was quite ordinary, which felt more unnerving than anything they had seen so far. That is, until they came across the peculiar sight of a screaming fair-haired man who was tied to a silver chair in one of the rooms.

His screaming only worsened when he saw them.

“Please! Quick! Free me from these bonds, strangers! I see from the look of you that you are noble warriors. Make haste, while my captor is not here: this hour is crucial.” At the blank look in their eyes, he let out a groan of frustration. “Has she told you, too, that I shall become a murderous serpent if I am freed? It is a lie, I swear it.”

“That is exactly what a murderous serpent would say,” Loki said dryly. The man’s golden hair, the rage in his eyes, and the idiotic _earnestness_ in them reminded him too much of Thor, and the memory of his brother only served to further his distaste.

But the man’s eyes had fixed on Puddleglum, and he began to sob. “Oh, the sight of you has struck me with grief. Narnia, Narnia! How witless the enchantress has made me, that I might forget you!”

The Marsh-Wiggle looked deeply uncomfortable. “He speaks of Narnia,” he told Loki. “Could this be—”

But although Loki was quite sure that the man was, indeed, the person Puddleglum was thinking of, he had no time to reflect on how to proceed, for the door on the far side of the room suddenly opened and revealed none other than the Lady of the Green Kirtle herself.

“Ah, so you have met my ailing Knight. Forgive me, he is not himself in these moments—quite pleasant all day, but for an hour, lost to this persistent madness. Come, traveler. Let us sit and speak, you and I, and leave our Knight to recuperate from his madness.”

***

Introductions were made, and Puddleglum was left behind, to be dealt with by some particularly gloomy-looking Earthmen—they might have much in common, Loki mused. The Lady led Loki into a richly-decorated room, in the center of which stood a table laden with food.

“Well,” she said, seating herself and gesturing for him to do the same, that much-too-joyful smile still on her face. “I did not expect one such as you to arrive at my door.”

Perhaps he ought to have been alarmed, given the gravity of the situation he found himself in, but Loki felt only serenity as he seated himself at the head of the table, crossing his legs as if he belonged.

“It’s an interesting place that you have here. It takes strong magic to bind so many.”

“Ah,” she replied, almost gleefully. “My suspicions are confirmed. Mortals cannot see the strings I have weaved to tie this city together. Tell me, from whence have you come? For I have not seen another of our kind in more than a thousand years.”

As if she could compare to an Asgardian. Loki sneered. “We are not of the same kind, though I recognize your skill.” He looked around them. “Has this been ten years in the making?”

“Longer. But deliverance is near.”

So she had set the pieces exactly where he needed them, almost as well as he might have done it himself. He had a sudden urge to laugh, laugh loud enough for it to penetrate the ceiling of soil and rock, loud enough for it to cross space and reach Odin and Thor. See what they would say when he emerged from the ground with an army of thousands and conquered the surface of this planet, with hardly any effort?

And Odin thought he could not take Jotunheim.

“And what of your chained Knight?”

“A powerful piece, when placed correctly. And a comfort in this dark place… for the time being.” She picked up a fruit from the table, which Loki had never seen before, and took a bite. When she looked at him again, there was something hungry in his eyes. “But the same ambition lies within you, Loki of Asgard, does it not? Ambition far beyond the simple desire of retrieving a lost heir.”

“I care not for the Narnians, or their royal families.”

“Nor do I,” said the Lady. “There is a reason our kind do not cross paths often. We tend to leave the earth scorched between us. But you and I… we could achieve great things.” She stood suddenly, the pit of the fruit tumbling to the floor. “Forget the Prince. In the end, his value has been to draw a much mightier power.”

Appearances be damned. He might not have a sword, but his dagger was still hidden in his cloak, and his magic was as powerful as ever. “I have no interest in being your replacement pet,” he told her, though he did not budge from where he sat. “Your army is here. I have seen the Prince. I now have two kingdoms at reach, and the power to take them both if I so choose.”

“Do you?” she said acidly. “The Earthmen are under my command. Without me, this city will waste away. Choose wisely if you are with me or against me.”

And in the strange, unearthly light of the underworld, the Lady of the Green Kirtle suddenly seemed to lose her mysterious glamor. She was powerful, but also transparent. And as he looked at her and the ridiculously laden table, she was nothing more than a petty figure with the same hunger in her eyes that he had seen in Laufey’s—not driven by power, but a slave to it.

Living underground for over ten years, keeping a boy chained…

Loki did not doubt that she would leave her own child in the dust, just as she intended to leave the Prince. She was no better than Laufey.

And no matter what the Narnians thought, he was no witch. He was Loki of Asgard, god of mischief, and far more than his father had ever believed him to be.

Certainly far more than a petty conqueror.

“What does it say about a Witch, that she lives under the ground for ten years, and all she can enslave are some bumbling earth-creatures? Tie a Prince to a chair, to keep him under enchantment?”

The Lady of the Green Kirtle let out a roar of rage, and suddenly stretched, twisted, and became a large, green serpent, spitting and coiling around itself, posed to strike him.

Loki let out a laugh, and turned into a serpent himself. “It takes much more to impress me, Witch,” he told her, returning to his normal form. And as she reared up to strike, her wide eyes feral and violent, he reached for the dagger in his cloak, weaving his magic around it—

Suddenly, the door crashed open and through it came none other than Prince Rilian, the Knight from the silver chair, with a gleaming sword in hand—his past uncontrolled rage now gone, replaced with focused, furious intent. And right behind him came Puddleglum.

“I suppose he’ll turn into a serpent now, like he said, and we’ll all be dead in a second—but we’re all bound to suffocate down here, being underground and all, so we might as well mix things up.”

Loki shrugged at him.

Prince Rilian heard none of it, however. The serpent had turned on him, and with a yell, he beheaded the thing, blood spattering around the ground and against Loki’s boots. The Lady of the Green Kirtle was no more… and neither was the serpent.

“I didn’t think to free him,” Loki admitted with some amusement. “My idea was more elegant.”

“This was more effective,” said the Prince, shaking the blood off his sword, jaw clenched. “Now, friends, let us leave this accursed place—I long to see the sun I had forgotten for ten years.”

***

The rest was a blur. They rode through chaos among oddly-shaped soldiers, away from an incoming flood, watching gnomes run off into the chasm that had opened up, apparently as a result of the Witch’s death. As armies went, it was quite a disappointment.

The Witch’s bonds had been strong, but not strong enough to outlast her.

As they clambered up a narrow, earthy tunnel, dust and soil mixing on their faces, the Prince at the head of them all—so eager to look at the sunlight—Puddleglum looked rather mournful.

“I thought it might sink my spirits somewhat, seeing as the other Wiggles think me too bubbly to be proper. But I’ve failed disastrously, what with our success and all. I’ll have to start all over again, now.” He sighed gloomily. "Who knew I'd be digging my way out of an underground city alongside two lost princes?"

Loki did not know what to say, so he ignored him, and finally the soil broke, sunlight filtering through… tentative and warm and oddly refreshing.

***

“Oi, there’s something coming outta—”

“Stay focused, Amaryllo. No more of that nonsense.”

“No, really, Ma! There’s something digging _out_!”

“You should be digging _in_ , like all the other Moles—by the Lion! What’s that?!”

“It’s a Human and a Marsh-Wiggle, Ma! And a—I don't know what _that_ is.”

“That’s a Good Witch, son. Now stand back and let 'em through.”

***

The King’s ship lay ready at the dock when they drew close to Cair Paravel, confirming Loki’s suspicions, but whatever preparations he was making were forgotten upon Prince Rilian’s arrival. King Caspian took one look at his son and all signs of age in him suddenly disappeared, as he raced to embrace him.

And when they turned slightly towards Loki, and Rilian threw back is head in joyful laughter, his golden hair and the pure enthusiasm in his eyes suddenly transported Loki to another place—to Thor, and the feeling when Thor would ride back home after some victory, and clap him in the back. In those times, even though it hadn’t been Loki’s victory, Thor had made him feel as if it _had_ been—as if nothing else mattered but the fact that they were there, together. That they were family.

As he looked from the Prince to the King, he found that Caspian the Tenth no longer reminded him of Odin's icy anger looking down from above. Instead, he saw Odin his father: young and full of kindness, one hand on Thor’s shoulder... but the other on Loki’s.

Caspian the Tenth, who had lost his son and nearly been destroyed by the grief. Caspian the Tenth, who had not believed Loki could save his son, any more than Odin had believed Loki could have taken Jotunheim. Caspian the Tenth, who now looked at Loki, and for a moment, said nothing, but smiled.

***

In the end, it was not quite as glorious as leading an army to conquer an unsuspecting kingdom, but the rewards weren’t terrible. The Prince was happy and the King was happy, and so all the people were happy—and they demonstrated their gratitude to Rilian’s saviors with _enthusiasm_. By nightfall, Loki found himself sitting in some courtyard with a flower crown in his hair, sipping wine alongside a pair of lively Fauns that spoke nothing but praise.

As festivities went, Loki might even dare to say that these were better than Asgard’s.

Puddleglum slipped away from the celebration at some point when none were watching, but he caught Loki’s eye as he went, touching a webbed hand to his hat in a gesture of comradery. There wasn’t much to say, really, that wouldn’t dissolve into more metaphorical tales of eels and Marsh-Wiggles, and if there was anything Loki liked about Puddleglum, it was that he didn’t ask stupid questions. And so, Loki raised his goblet in the Marsh-Wiggle’s direction, nodded, and watched him disappear into the corridors that led out of the citadel.

If Narnia was the place he was meant to settle in, then so be it. He could be a Good Witch—whatever that meant—and make himself indispensable to this kingdom.

From now on, he would enjoy the comforts afforded to him, and settle into this new normalcy. After all, there were some advantages in being the newest attraction in Narnia, as the only visitor from outside the planet.

***

“Hoo! What’s all this to-do so early, tu-who?”

“Hurry, Glimfeather, and fetch the King—and Loki the Witch, for that matter! A Son of Adam and a Daughter of Eve have appeared in Narnia at last!”

**Author's Note:**

> Loki can never catch a break, lol.  
> Thank you for this wonderful prompt! I hope I did it justice.


End file.
